


theotokos

by nightofdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Before Monster at the End of This Book, Chuck Shurley is God, Gen, Mary gets closure, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Time Travel, after Mary's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24134857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightofdean/pseuds/nightofdean
Summary: Mary isn't sure what to do with freedom - she gets some closure.
Relationships: Chuck Shurley & Mary Winchester
Kudos: 2





	theotokos

**Author's Note:**

> a fic mostly born out of the frustration of wanting mary to get one of those god convos + what if mary wasn't dead but went on vacay + her whole arc was centered on her sons = this
> 
> theotokos = the greek word for Mary in the Eastern Orthodox Catholic church where they believe in the Dormition of Mary = "The falling asleep of mary the mother of god"

She gazed at the bloody scar on her soul, at the reeking corpse left behind from - she still wasn't sure what happened. Looked around saw a run down motel, made her way to it unsteadily. Still holding organs in her hands, eyes permanently stapled toward the sky, blue eyes eternally crying. 

Mary had not expected surviving death a second - no, third time. Something had cracked inside her when Jack killed her, and she awoke here - something bloomed. Opening pockets of memory embedded inside of her that couldn't be forgotten. No matter how hard beings like Amara tried. Wounds of the soul remained. 

She tried getting a room inside the motel but the clerk wouldn't let a penniless - nearly, she had scant few dollars on her when Jack lashed out. Leaving the motel premises she made her way to an internet café hoping for some mercy there. 

At the café she manages to order a mug of coffee - all she could afford with what she had in her pocket. While sipping the hot drink she feels someone watching her - or something. Knowing now that someone can also be something, Mary turns around cautiously. She finds a quaint looking couple sharing apple pie and a lump of melting ice cream. Mary looks away, the scene unbearably intimate as it conjures memories of the past. A rushed wedding in Reno. 

A chance meeting in a theater marquee. 

Turns back to her cooling coffee mug, and nearly startles at the man sitting across from her. Mary breaths shakily, the blood in her bleeding soul boils. 

"I can fix that for you," he says, pointing at the cooling coffee, a genial smile on his face. 

Mary nods, at a loss for words, she takes a moment to study the man. His messy hair, wildly curling and obviously not brushed or if it was not with any care. The stranger's beard was not well groomed either, she noticed, remembered the short time John had a beard and how he shaved it off - complaining of the upkeep. Remembered the rugged John she met who had gone hunting for her killer, Azazel, she knew - though she didn't know how - the John who sported a beard. Despite all that the stranger's clothes were crisp, though not something you would wear to an interview, they appeared to be new. 

Mary's coffee was steaming again and back on it's way to cooling down. 

"Mary," he spoke, carefully holding her name in the air, suspended frozen, "we need to talk."

"About what?" she didn't ask, how he knew her name, that she felt would be too frightening - like asking why Amara would bring her back to life. Like asking why - 

The stranger's brows rose, clear blue eyes piercing her in surprise or curiosity - Mary was unsure, but she had done something to pique the man's interest, more.

The Stranger's mouth quirked in apparent genuine amusement, "Well, about you?" 

"Me?" 

Me. Mary ran that over in her mind, usually strange otherworldly creatures wanted her attention, well not her attention. It was usually her body or her life, because of her sons. It was usually, always about them. It was always about what her body could do for them, her womb, her mothering, what she knew about Sam and Dean. 

Mary was finding it hard to fathom that this didn't in some part have to do with them. 

"Yes, about you, of course it is." said the stranger, with such an air of flippancy. As if talking to recently deceased and resurrected widowed mother's of two was common. As if it was obvious that this could be about her. 

"Oh - okay." Mary, responded, still trying to comprehend that reality. "Who are you anyway?" 

"You can call me Chuck," said the stranger, Chuck, as he leaned across the tacky linoleum dinner table and conspiratorially whispered, "but some call me - " 

No sound as she could articulate it passed Chuck's lips, but she felt it in her heart nonetheless. As if she had known the moment she had seen him, by the seven swords eternally stabbing her in the heart, twisting for ever and ever. Heart held in her hands. Mary wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept and wept 

Until the skies turned blood red with her grieving. 

She awoke, groggily in dim blue light of Chuck's house - she didn't know how she knew, a phenomena that kept happening with frequency. Wiped her tear stained face and pulled herself out of the soft cushions of the couch, and followed the sound of clacking keys. 

The back of his head was bent over the keys as he plucked away at them, composing the story that she knew would be called the Winchester Gospels. 

"Why them?" she asked, pointedly. Grabbing at the question before it dispersed like smoke in her mind. 

Chuck twisted around in the plush chair, feet curled under him, he looked up at Mary behind him - head tilted curiously. 

"I don't know. What do you think?" he said, gaze flicking away from Mary, as if it pained him to look - even for a second. Chuck's blunt fingers picked at his socked feet perched on the edge of the chair, pulling at a loose thread. 

Mary couldn't find a good reason amongst all the pain that occupied her life - lives. Amongst the chaos of saving John and making a deal with Azazel, of trying to protect John from the life of hunting. Only to be yanked from the afterlife by Amara as a token of appreciation. It was disorienting. 

"I don't know, either." Mary sighed, and fell heavily down on the coffee table, a beer can wobbled precariously but valiantly resisted the pull of gravity. 

"If it matters, good things do happen, Mary," said Chuck, a small wain smile pulling at his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. 

Mary felt like a marionette that had it's strings cut. Violently. Felt untethered, the words Chuck spoke rang with truth. That he was trying to help. She knew them to be, but she couldn't let herself feel it now. Not yet. 

"It doesn't matter," she said, roughly, whole body crumbling under the pressure, head falling heavily in her hands. Practically folded into two. 

"That's not fair." 

"Not fair?" she echoed, quietly, not bothering to expel the energy to raise her voice in disbelief. Heat wouldn't stop licking at her heels, she couldn't seem to stop bleeding from her abdomen. The heel of her hand dug into her eye sockets pushing the images out. 

"Yes, not fair, Mary. You've had a hard life so far - " She heard Chuck clear his throat, and the sound of socked feet padding closer to her. A wide warm hand rested on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

"The journey is over, you can relax now." 

Mary dragged her head up, slowly opening tearing eyes, not quiet believing that the other shoe wouldn't soon drop. That a demon wouldn't burst in the door or a new terrifying monster wouldn't reveal itself wanting to rip her body to shreds for a summoning ritual or experimentation. 

Mouth opened to protest the reality that Chuck was proposing, but he beat her to it. Hand cupped Mary's cheek and stilled her protest.

"It's going to be fine." 

She swallowed thickly, pushing down a sob, unable to let go of years of trauma quite yet - a reaction that she didn't understand. Knew it was irrational to hold onto that familiar twist in her stomach, that shiver up her spine, rage in her ribcage. The knives in her bleeding heart. 

"How do I know that?" 

Chuck's mouth turned into a grim line, "Faith, I suppose, but that's to easy an answer, " Chuck sat beside her, both now on the coffee table, the vibrations set the beer can tumbling (finally submitting to gravity's pull). "Though I believe finding a purpose outside of Sam and Dean would help." 

Mary couldn't imagine what she could do now that she was - was free. Her time now officially over, curtains closed, exit scene, as it were. It felt liberating yet, incredibly stifling. All the world a stage, and it was hers to explore. Mary stretched, gripped the edge of the table for support.

"And what about you?" _Will you keep them safe?_

"You can trust me." Chuck's warm hand covered her own, a reassuring embrace. 

Mary met his gaze, clear grey-blue eyes, nearly black in the dim lighting. "Will you be able to let them go?" _Like I couldn't and then died for them? Could you let them go before it's too late?_

Chuck's only answer was a squeeze of her hand - leaving silently to finish his next book. 

Mary stared at her hand, still warm from Chuck's own - still slick from the bloody embrace if she concentrated hard enough. 


End file.
